


The Cold Injustice of the North

by Universal_Acid



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gang Rape, Hypothermia, M/M, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Spoilers, Suicidal Thoughts, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-09-18 00:55:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16985067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Universal_Acid/pseuds/Universal_Acid
Summary: After becoming seriously hypothermic during his run back south to the Wall, Gendry relies on the aid of the Thenns to save his life. But there was a cultural misunderstanding, and the help of the Thenns is not without a price.Trigger Warnings and Disclaimer:Please note that this story contains graphic descriptions of rape, physical injury, psychological trauma, and suicidal ideation. I do not condone the use of violence and understand that this is a work of fiction. All rights and privileges belong to their licensed, respective owners. This is written solely for personal reasons and not for profit.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't read this fic if rape stories trigger you, or if they're just not your thing. Additional tags will be added as chapters are uploaded, so if you feel I've missed a tag, please feel free to suggest one. The three Thenns in this story are original characters, mostly because I couldn't find a reasonable canon-appropriate pairing in which Gendry getting raped is plausible or (more or less) canon-adherent. 
> 
> This work contains spoilers for GoT Season 7, episode 6 and relies heavily on the events that happen in that episode. There are also minor references to previous episodes throughout earlier seasons.
> 
> I love comments. Please feel free to leave them.

Gendry wrapped his cloak tightly around himself and blew into his cupped hands, fighting fruitlessly against the icy northern wind that pitched the rowboat from side to side, threatening to capsize the tiny vessel. The cold air stung in Gendry’s throat and in his chest. He sucked his breath through his nostrils, trying to ease the bite of the wind. Past the rocky shore, the ominous Wall loomed above a keep of snow-covered stone. Bleak ramparts and switchback stairs ascended the thousand feet to the top of the Wall. The thought of climbing to the top of the Wall to peer out across the great barren taiga beyond, lifeless but for the dormant trees, deepened the chill he felt all the way into his bones. 

This was The North. Even before setting foot in this land, Gendry hated it. 

He’d never quavered in his choice to follow the King in the North to Eastwatch, nor beyond the Wall to capture a wight, but that was before feeling the stinging wind, or seeing the black-and-blue of the ice, nor feeling the warmth being slowly drawn from his limbs by the relentless cold. For a moment, he questioned his loyalty and all the stupidity in coming here. His regrets he left unvoiced, and he abandoned the wish to turn back home for the warm muck of Flea Bottom before the boats came to shore. He was a man of principle, if nothing else; all a bastard had in his life were principles. Much as he hated the cold, he would not stray from his promise to follow Jon Snow into the land of the dead. 

“Cold sucks the life out of you, doesn’t it?” Ser Davos shouted from the neighboring boat, difficult to hear across the whistle of the wind. “Pull your hood up.” 

Gendry tugged his cloak up. The fur-lined hood softened the stinging impact of the cold and eased his discomfort, if only a little. 

“An old smuggler’s trick, the hood?” Gendry asked Davos once they had shored the boats. 

“No, just an old man’s trick.” Davos took off his cap and rubbed a hand over his receding hairline before covering his head once more. He set to work unloading the gear from the boat with Gendry. 

“How do people live this far north?” 

“People live where they can, I suppose. Or where they’re forced to, either by birth or circumstance. If you cannot choose where you live, you make do. Even in a place so cold as this.” 

“Some men choose to live here.” 

“You mean the king?” Davos had lowered his voice. 

Gendry nodded. He glanced to one of the nearby rowboats, where the King in the North Jon Snow, former Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch and bastard son of Eddard Stark, was just as busy as his men in bringing ashore their supplies of food, firewood, furs, weapons. 

“It’s hardly a choice if forced by circumstance or heritage,” Davos said. 

“He chose to join the Night’s Watch, didn’t he?” 

“Is one joining the Watch when he had no other choice so different than you becoming a blacksmith because an unnamed lord chose to pay for your apprenticeship?” 

“Perhaps not,” Gendry muttered. _But I think I might have gotten the better deal,_ he thought, but then he remembered. Come a few more days or a week, and they’d be heading back south, where Jon Snow would still be a King, and Gendry, just a bastard. At least a bastard fortunate enough to have some choice in the direction of his own life, he reasoned, even if those choices came with a cold nose and numb toes and each breath, a bite inside his chest that lingered into the next for so long as they remained out in the Northern cold. 

He kept his misgivings to himself during the short march to the keep. In the courtyard they were met by more men of the Night’s Watch and a mixed group of wildlings, more than double the number of men who’d taken the black. The men of the Night’s Watch looked more or less like Westerosi in their grooming habits, but the wildlings varied far more in both attire and appearance. Some were wreathed in messes of black hair and beard that went ungroomed, uncombed, and seldom washed. One, red-haired and wild-eyed, who appeared to be on good terms with the King in the North, was as fiery in demeanor as in appearance. A few others were shaven cleanly, with scars deliberately carved into the skin of their faces, their hands, their heads. 

Upon seeing the bald Wildlings, Gendry turned to Davos, puzzled. 

Davos shrugged and said, softly, “Thenns. Or so I’ve been told.” 

“You think they wear fur hats when they’re out in the snow?” Gendry asked. The thought of bald wildlings in the Lands of Always Winter amused him. 

“Dunno.” Davos was stone-faced. “I know little of the wilding clans or their ways, save the names of a few. Clans of the Frozen Shores. Hornfoots. Thenns. But what I do know is that they are loyal to Jon Snow, for he saved them from the horrors of the north.” 

Gendry dropped his voice to a whisper. “Do you think they’ll remain loyal?” 

“I couldn’t tell you, lad. They’ve seen the White Walkers, and know they’re better off here. But their customs are different. Views on loyalty may be somewhat… more flexible among the free folk. Their loyalty to the King in the North may not be so easily shared with the rest of us southern folk.” 

At the tone in Davos’s voice, Gendry felt the remains of his curiosity fade into unease. He glanced back at the wildlings, then tossed one Thenn who had caught his eye a nod, an acknowledgement of baseline respect between men. The Thenn, blue-eyed and with crescent scars carved into the weathered skin of his bony cheeks, returned the nod with an unblinking, uncompromising stare. Gendry felt the hairs at the nape of his neck rising. He averted his gaze. It bode poorly for their mission to inadvertently start a fight with a people whose customs he knew as well as he knew the winter. 

He turned his attention back to his King. Jon was in the middle of discussion with the red-haired wilding man, and Gendry quickly deduced that this man – Tormund Giantsbane, as Davos soon told him – was a confidant, a liaison perhaps to the wildlings on behalf of Jon Snow. Their conversation was too quiet to hear, but soon Jon Snow glanced up and gestured to the men of his party, and Gendry went with Davos and Ser Joras into the great central hall of the keep. 

The hall was barely warmer than outside in the courtyard, as the fire, though blazing, only served to take the edge off the pervasive chill. The hall was poorly lit by a few candles, and little comfort was to be found on the hard wooden benches surrounding the tables. At Jon’s direction the party took up the table closest to the fire. Gendry took a seat as close to the hearth as he could, savoring what little warmth and light the crackling logs gave off. 

There, they planned their course of attack. Soon, they were led by Tormund into the cells below the keep and found themselves in the company of three men of the Brotherhood without Banners – Thoros of Myr, Sandor Clegane the Hound, and Beric Dondarrion. _As if this mission couldn’t get any worse,_ Gendry thought when Jon Snow added the Brotherhood to their ranks. Gendry distrusted the Brotherhood more than the wildlings he’d seen upstairs, and their addition to the party increased his sense that this whole plan of Jon Snow’s was utter foolishness. 

* * *

They settled in at Eastwatch that night, one last stay in a dry keep before setting out at dawn into the killing cold. At supper they joined the Night’s Watch and the wildlings in the central hall, which was warmer now with a few dozen bodies filling the space. They drank weak ale to keep their senses clear, and ate from trenchers of black bread filled with a thin, steaming stew. The stew tasted not unlike a bowl of brown, except tastier, and likely cooked with actual chicken instead of the mystery meats pawned in Flea Bottom. Gendry eagerly consumed the meal, then rose to go find seconds. 

“You wait your turn.” One of the Thenns appeared behind Gendry, fixing him with a glower made more threatening by the hash-marked scars across the left half of his face. Though shorter than Gendry, he was broad and muscular, and his smirk said that if the confrontation came to blows, he would easily best the blacksmith from the South, no matter how strong Gendry thought he was. “Vilgrun needs to eat.” 

Another Thenn – Vilgrun, Gendry deduced –taller than the first and thinner, stepped out of the shadows and joined his clansman. He laid a hand on the knife at his belt, a sign of warning. 

“I meant no disrespect,” Gendry said. He stepped aside to let the Thenns through and gave each a small nod, as he had the first Thenn he’d seen from across the courtyard. 

The Thenns exchanged glances, and the shorter of the two then muttered something to Vilgrun in a harsh and guttural tongue, fixing Gendry with a slight upturn of a grin. Vilgrun laughed, then helped himself to some stew. 

“You have a name?” asked the more muscled Thenn. 

“Gendry.” 

“Skolr.” 

“Well met.” 

The Thenns exchanged another of their sidelong glances. Then, wordlessly, Skolr and Vilgrun pushed past Gendry on their way to the serving table. Gendry watched them quizzically as they heaped their trenchers full, then took the last heel of black bread and left the pot of stew empty before taking up seats at a table in the shadows, far from the hearth. There they joined the first of the Thenns, the one from the courtyard, who sat watching the gathered assortment of men of the Night’s Watch and wildlings and the occasional straggling bastard. 

Gendry tried not to stare at them, nor feel affronted that they’d taken the last of the food. By the Seven, they weren’t even joining the mission beyond the Wall. Dissatisfied, Gendry refilled his tankard and returned to his table without seconds. There, he slid a bit closer to the fire, nursing his ale and trying not to dwell on his apprehension about the Thenns, especially considering tomorrow. This was no time for hurt feelings over a meal. The mission might claim his life, he knew. To perish beyond the Wall, where the White Walkers enlisted the dead, made any concern about the wildlings seem trivial and petty. 

* * *

That night, Gendry slept poorly. He dreamed of running in the snow alone, in the dark, the sound of the howling wind whipping across fields of ice as far as his eyes could see. To the south he could see the blue-black shadow of the forest at the base of the Wall rising against a star-filled moonless sky. It might have been beautiful if not for the dread he felt, nor the wailing shrieks behind him, wights and their White Walker masters hunting him down in the deadly cold. He raced for the Wall but seemed to gain no ground. Eastwatch and its fires, the last bastion of life, seemed to grow further into the distance with each racing step. He cried out in desperation as the malevolent dead closed in on him, so close behind him now he could hear the rattle of their bones. He turned back and saw them, an undulating sea of countless dead that threatened to submerge him. He could smell them, the rotting of their black flesh peeled back from the bones of their faces. Their shrieking rage, their hatred of the living. He forced himself forward and sprinted south, but now the Wall was gone. All he saw was endless ice. The forest had been replaced with sheets of never-ending ice on mountains that never thawed. He was going to die here, in the bitter North, only to march in the army of the dead. 

When a bony hand closed on his arm he jerked free, then lost his footing. He tried to keep from falling but hit the ice hard. In an instant they were on him. He fought, but the dead grabbed his arms and tore at his furs, exposing his bare chest to the bitter wind. He cried out, trying to break free as the sharp finger bones of a wight clawed at his chest, digging between his ribs to pull apart his ribcage, exposing his racing heart. 

With a gasp, Gendry shot upright in bed. He was drenched in sweat and shivering. The fire in the hearth had gone cold. Shivering, he pulled the fur blankets around his shoulders and sat on the edge of the bed, exhaling heavily, trying to rid his mind of the nightmare. 

When he could breathe again, he glanced around at the small chamber where he’d spent the night. The room was empty, with the bed on the other side of the wall left unmade, as if its occupant had arisen early. Near the dead hearth, the door opened with a soft click, and Tormund Giantsbane came in, bleary-eyed but fully dressed for the winter, torch in hand. 

“Thought someone was skinning a hare in here.” Tormund gave Gendry a wild-eyed grin. 

“Just a nightmare, that’s all.” 

“Wait ‘til we get beyond the Wall. That’s the real nightmare.” 

“You’ve seen them.” 

Tormund nodded. His expression went grim. 

“Are they as bad as I’ve dreamed them to be?” 

“Worse.” 

Gendry exhaled, then placed his feet on the ice-cold floor. “Can I borrow your torch? For the fire.” 

“No need. We’re soon to meet at the gate.” Tormund made to leave. “Get ready to kill some dead things.” 

“Wait,” Gendry called. 

Tormund stopped in the doorway, then turned back. 

“With what you’ve seen, what you know… should we be doing this?” 

Tormund gave a quiet, sardonic noise, sighing out a small cloud of mist. “We’re fools to go back out there. But they’re coming for us.” Then he grinned, wildly. “And I’m not going to wait around watching my arse get fat when we might do something to stop them.” 

Then Tormund was gone, and Gendry was left alone in the cold chamber, regretting everything.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter contains graphic descriptions of rape and medical treatment.

Tormund was right. 

Even in nightmares, Gendry never could have imagined the horrors beyond the Wall. 

Deep in the snow, after two days’ hard march northward, they found the dead in all its forms, great and brutal, man and beast alike. Each time they engaged the dead in combat, Gendry thought he would perish at their hands, soon to become one of the festering corpses that pursued the living with every decayed fiber of its being. But he survived. He fought alongside old enemies and new friends alike in the name of life and for the sake of the mission. His purpose drove him, and he hardly felt the horror until he was out of it. Only when commanded to return to Eastwatch, to send a raven to the Dragon Queen, did his nightmares become his reality. 

He found himself running south in the twilight, alone, weaponless. He raced south along the tracks left by the raiding party, praying to The Seven that the snow had not consumed them. Behind him, the sounds of the dead were soon swallowed into the oppressive silence of the snow. He ran for miles without rest, driven by the failing hope of surviving long enough to send for aid. He barely noticed as the sky grew dark, nor as his lungs began to burn, nor as the pain in his feet from the cold deepened into the bone. 

Still, he ran. 

He ran until he felt dizzy from exhaustion. Further still when his belly began to ache from hunger, and his feet began to go numb, and when his limbs began to shiver, when it became harder to keep up the pace. Around him, the wind grew colder and fiercer, whistling past his stinging ears to die in the snow like the sounds of the dead. He ran until his legs ceased to feel, until he began to stumble. At one point, he glanced down at his senseless feet, barely recognizing that he had strayed from the path. Desperately, he raced through a craggy pass, thinking perhaps he’d been here before, but all the snow-covered peaks and rocks had begun to look the same. The stony peaks rose jagged from the earth, like faces, taunting his mortality. He stumbled through the pass and up a rocky embankment, then stopped. 

In the distance loomed the Wall, ice black in the darkness of night. 

Desperation drove him. He was in agony but knew if he stopped running, he would never start again. He found himself skidding on his feet down the hillside, remembering his dream and how in the nightmare, every frantic step had driven the Wall further from his reach. _Please, it must be real._ he pleaded with the Gods both old and new, whomever might care to listen. 

His body began to fail in the last mile before the Wall. His legs barely responded, as if turned to mush by the cold. His heart pounded in his ice-burned chest to a strong but slowing and erratic beat, and every breath was more ragged than the last. _Just one more step,_ he urged himself. _If I die, they die. Just one more step._

He did not remember how he fell. As he hit the ice, he cried out silently, for he knew he could not rise. He tried to push himself up, but his numb, shaking arms collapsed beneath his weight. He fell face down in the snow again, too spent to carry on. There he lay, feeling the world spin around him, and he knew that he had failed. 

He heard sounds then, dim and unplaceable. Something grinding, then footsteps soft and growing louder. Someone cried out in a foreign tongue, and it took his cold-addled mind a moment to recognize the voice of Davos. 

“What happened?” Davos sounded like he was yelling through fog across water, voice echoing, almost unintelligible. 

“Raven,” Gendry uttered. “We have to send a raven.” 

“Get the Maester!” 

“Daenerys…” Gendry’s voice had gone hoarse. “The raven…” 

Gendry felt his words fail as hands descended upon him. His eyes were closed, but still, he could see the faces that surrounded him. Their eyes had gone blue and their skin black with decay. Davos, the kindhearted Onion Knight – half the skin of his face was gone. His hands were naught but bone. Davos’s teeth gnashed beneath his lipless mouth with his words, which came out as a seamless shrieking wail. The wight that once was Davos gripped Gendry by the shoulders and a number of the dead pulled his body out of the snow. 

Crying out, Gendry fought with the last of his strength but was easily overpowered. He struggled, weakly, as the dead immobilized his arms and legs to something hard, restraining him before killing him. He opened his eyes, but the rotten faces conjured by his mind had disappeared. In their places were shadows, neither living nor dead, casting themselves upon him and illuminated from behind by a beautiful orange glow. 

_Strange,_ he thought, for shadows could never cast themselves against the light. 

He searched for the source of the light and found a long line of burning torches, stretching out as far into the darkness as his eyes could see. In the torches, he saw faces of those he’d known in life, flickering in and out of being with the movement of the flames. Each torch bore the face of a person. The first, Davos, caught his eye and cast him one of his stern, concerned, fatherly expressions before flickering out in the flames. In the second torch stood Jon Snow, all in black and a crow. I failed you, Gendry cried to the torchlight. The crow Jon Snow shook his head, then turned away, fading into the flame. In the third torch he saw a girl disguised as a boy, and when Arya Stark smiled at Gendry, forlornly, Gendry knew that he had been a fool to leave her. He was saddened by seeing his lady, remembering her with fondness, wondering if he was on his way to meet her in the land of the dead. In the last of the torches, he saw a man he had never met, young and fit and broad-shouldered, with Gendry’s black hair and deep blue eyes. In his youth, King Robert looked like the reflection Gendry would see upon peering into a pool of still water. The king held his bastard infant son in his arms, and suddenly Gendry knew the delirium had taken him. King Robert had never known of Gendry’s existence, let alone been there to hold him. As soon as Gendry knew the vision was false, Robert’s face and all the others were gone. The torches were naught but flames in a long, darkened tunnel beneath the weeping ice. 

He did not remember how he found himself in the bed, nor when he’d been stripped of his wet, frozen clothing and wrapped in blankets and furs. He could hear a fire nearby, and feel its beautiful warmth. A pair of voices stirred around him, speaking softly. A gentle, calloused, impossibly warm hand came to rest upon his forehead. 

“Maester Harmune” – The voice belonged to Davos – “he’s still too cold.” 

“Raven…” Gendry could barely form the word. Suddenly a harsh cough burst from his lips. A sensation of drowning overwhelmed him and he instinctively tried to sit upright. 

“Woah, easy lad.” The second voice belonged to the Maester of Eastwatch, Harmune, who appeared beside Davos and placed his hands on Gendry’s shoulders, gently pushing him down toward the mattress. “You must lie still.” 

“Davos,” Gendry coughed. “The raven…” 

“I’ve sent for Daenerys,” Davos said, quickly. “It’s done.” 

“How long have I been here?” Gendry found it difficult to speak clearly. 

“Not long,” Davos said. “Less than an hour.” 

Gendry tried to respond, but then coughed again, spitting up fluid that left the taste of iron in the back of his mouth. 

“That cough, Harmune.” Concern was etched into Davos’s aged face. 

“Common after being in the cold,” slurred the Maester. He rose unsteadily and made his way to a cabinet near the hearth. His chains clanged as he dug inside the cabinet, pulling forth clinking bottles, tipping one over. “He needs spirits to warm his blood. Some of the stronger stuff I keep in here.” 

“Fool,” cried a harsh voice from across the room, followed by hurried footsteps. “No spirits, or you kill him.” 

At first Gendry could not identify the voice, but then his heart started pounding painfully as he placed the sound. The man was a Thenn, the one named Skolr, judging by the depth of his voice and brutishness of his accent. Gendry’s fear increased the rate of his breathing and his coughing, and every breath hurt worse than the last. 

“I assure you,” Maester Harmune said, “spirits and a warm fire are an excellent treatment for cold sickness.” The Maester’s chains clanged as he moved unsteadily towards Gendry’s bed, uncorked bottle of spirits in his hand. “Someone get me a knife for his ruined toes.” 

“Maester, are you sure that’s needed?” Davos asked, worriedly. 

“I’ve treated a few cases of in my years, and most come with – hic – amputation.” Harmune turned casually to Gendry. “Sorry, lad, but you might lose a foot. I can’t promise you’ll live, but… I’ll do as best I can.” 

“Maester,” Davos murmured, aghast, “you’re drunk.” 

“By the Seven,” Gendry cursed softly. He wanted to cry out in despair. He turned, grasping for Davos, still feeling like he was drowning. His ragged breath caught inside him as he saw over his friend’s shoulder that all of the Thenns, Skolr and Vilgrun and the third, had appeared in the room. 

Their faces were blurred, but Gendry knew them by their bald, pale heads and the menace to their postures. His dread forced him inward and he pulled away even from Davos, curling his legs to his chest, turning his back on the other men as he hid his face in his hands. 

“This is not good treating of cold sickness,” said the Thenn whose name remained unknown. “Leave. _Now.”_

“Who do you think you are?” Davos demanded. 

“I am Asvaldur of the Thenns, and I treated my clansmen, my daughter, my family, from cold sickness before the dead took them in other ways. We know this sickness, better than southerners.” Asvaldur spit the last word with contempt. 

“I dare say,” the Maester said, “I am a healer, trained at the citadel in –” 

“No Maester ever lived in the Frostfangs,” Asvaldur interrupted, “where winter is long and the cold kills both strong and weak without… what is the word. Compassion.” 

“Mercy,” corrected Skolr. 

“Mercy,” Asvaldur said. “You would trust a man so drunk he cannot speak to heal your friend. But not us, because we are not sheep of the South. Then, his death will be yours to bear.” 

Gendry had heard enough. He opened his eyes and turned his head, trying to see his friend, fighting the pulsing pain at his temples. He could not hold the gaze for long, exhausted as he was. “Davos…” 

“I’m here.” Davos laid a hand on Gendry’s shoulder. 

“I can hardly breathe.” 

“This, too, we can help him with,” said Asvaldur. 

“Do you trust them, lad?” Davos asked Gendry. 

_What is a dying man to say to that,_ Gendry thought, wearily. His lungs burned and he felt that he was drowning. Every painful, labored breath gurgled softly in his chest. Every time he coughed, he tasted iron. He feared that left untended, he would drown in his own blood before the night’s end. He needed help, this much he knew. And when the choice came down to barbarians or a drunk and the possibility of losing toes, he’d rather the steadier hand behind the knife. 

“Yes,” he managed to whisper. 

“All right.” Davos got to his feet and departed the bedside. “You three had best know what you’re doing. And if he does not last the night, you shall answer to me.” 

“No worrying.” Asvaldur started for the bedside. “Your friend is safe now.” 

“I’ll stay here with him,” Davos said. 

“No.” Gendry feared the Thenns, but more feared Davos seeing him like this, in his weakness. Davos cared, but it was hard enough to be helpless. Harder, still, to be seen by his friend as the burden he’d become. 

Davos was quiet for a moment. “Are you sure?” 

“Just go,” Gendry whispered. 

“All right,” Davos said at last. He let Gendry go and rose to his feet. “Harmune, I’ll see you to get some water and sleep. And you…” He turned to Asvaldur. “You are to tell me as soon as anything changes. If he dies –” 

“Then he will die a man,” Asvaldur said, “and stay as such into the Great Beyond.” 

“For your own sake, you will not let that happen.” Then, Davos took his leaving. 

Gendry let out his painful breath in a shuddering, withheld sob as the sounds of Davos’s and Harmune’s footsteps retreated and as the door latched shut behind them. When they were gone, he almost admitted to himself that perhaps Davos should have stayed, if only for the calming of his presence. 

Over the sounds of the Thenns moving about in the room, he thought he heard a second click that sounded like a lock. He looked around, seeing that one of the Thenns had closed the cabinet of spirits as another had shut the door. He then saw the quietest Thenn – Vilgrun, he remembered – pouring water into a cauldron to heat over the fire. Too exhausted to keep watching them, Gendry closed his eyes, focusing on the sound. A Thenn pulled up a chair next to the bed. Fabric rustled from across the room. He heard the Thenns conversing in their harsh Northern tongue, followed by one of their soft laughs. He flinched when he felt a foreign hand on the nape of his neck start to work its way down to the center of his back. His eyes snapped open, and Asvaldur’s gaunt, scarred face was there, watching him. 

“You must sit up,” Asvaldur said. “Ease your breathing.” 

“Ohh.” Gendry could not suppress his shiver as Asvaldur gently helped him sit upright. The wooly blankets and furs fell away from him, exposing the bare skin of his chest to the frigid air. _Please put them back,_ he wanted to cry. Weakly, he grabbed for the blankets, but Asvaldur pulled them up across his chest and shoulders. 

Asvaldur was right, Gendry found. It was indeed easier to draw breath like this, and soon the pain in his chest began to ebb to something more tolerable. He relaxed somewhat as Asvaldur handled him, surprisingly gentle. If they’d wanted to harm him, they would have already, he reasoned, or they simply would have let Harmune finish killing him. Tentatively, Gendry decided to trust the Thenns, and he submitted to their continued care. 

Vilgrun joined Asvaldur at the bedside and said something in their unknowable Northern tongue. Then, Gendry felt something warm and yielding, like a water bladder, being tucked into his armpit. The blissful sensation was soon followed by a second under his other arm, then a third into his groin. The water bladders felt wonderful, and Gendry could feel the warmth radiating through his body, rewarming the coldness he felt to his core. But then, he startled as he felt the well-muscled Thenn, Skolr, climb into the bed behind him. 

Skolr had stripped down to just the thinnest of coarse woolen underclothing, and his radiant heat was palpable even before their bodies touched. Gendry stiffened as Skolr slid his legs around his naked hips and closed the gap between them. Skolr then wrapped his muscular arms around Gendry and held the blanket up over his shoulders, keeping in the warmth. Gendry began to relax again, feeling clarity start to return as the sweet heat of the other man’s body enveloped him. Even the warmth from the other man’s flaccid groin against his backside felt good, and suddenly he was reminded of what Tormund had said about fucking. _That’s not going to happen,_ he told himself, and he dismissed the memory as he focused on the warmth. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, then coughed as the breath caught deep in his injured chest. Again, he tasted iron. 

Vilgrun said something in Thennish, which Asvaldur began to translate. 

“You ran in the cold for so long that the air damaged your lungs,” Asvaldur said. “Some people die from this. But with you, it is not so bad. You will breathe well enough in time.” 

“It still hurts,” Gendry said. 

“This will pass.” 

When Gendry coughed again, Asvaldur used a dry cloth to wipe away the spittle from his mouth. Gendry opened his eyes and saw the pale pink of blood on the cloth. 

“I’m going to die, aren’t I?” 

“No.” For the first time since Gendry had met him, Asvaldur smiled. If possible, the man looked even more grim while smiling. “You are past the worst so long as you stay calm. Do not fight us, no matter what happens.” 

Gendry frowned, not quite knowing what Asvaldur meant by that. Perhaps he’d thought Gendry would fight when Skolr had climbed into the bed to warm him. But then, when Vilgrun appeared at the foot of the bed, unsheathing the knife at his hip, Gendry’s breath caught in his throat and he remembered what Maester Harmune had said about losing toes. 

“Do you have to?” Gendry winced at how pathetic his voice sounded. 

Vilgrun shrugged and said something in Thennish. 

“We do not know yet,” Asvaldur translated. He gestured to Vilgrun, who pulled back the furs and blankets to expose Gendry’s cold, waxy feet. 

Gendry watched as Vilgrun pressed a gentle finger against his left foot, furrowing his scarred brow as the skin failed to yield beneath the pressure. One by one, Vilgrun squeezed each toe, then moved on to the right foot. Gendry barely felt the touch until Vilgrun began to move his hands up, palpating Gendry’s numb ankles, then his chilly calves, and then the backs of his knees, where there finally was sensation. 

Gendry winced at the heat of Vilgrun’s fingers, and the Thenn pulled his hands away. Vilgrun then gestured to Asvaldur and climbed into the foot of the bed, where he sat cross-legged and gently lifted Gendry’s legs. Gendry heard the sound of pouring water and then Asvaldur was handing Vilgrun a bucket, which Vilgrun positioned carefully in his lap before submerging Gendry’s frozen feet. 

The water was tepid, but it nearly burned against Gendry’s cold-bitten skin. 

“It’s too hot,” Gendry cried, trying to pull free. He immediately started to struggle, but Skolr’s strong arms held him in place and Vilgrun grabbed his knees, forcing him to keep his feet in the water. 

“Stop struggling, boy,” Asvaldur threatened. “Do you want to keep your feet?” 

“I… I can’t…” _It’s too hot,_ Gendry’s mind kept repeating, but he could neither break free nor stop the burning as his feet began to thaw and sensation and blood flow returned. He let out a sob and then coughed hard, spitting up pinkish fluid. Even with his heart pounding, he could not muster the strength to break free from the three men who held him. Soon the coughing overtook him, and he lost any ability, conscious or otherwise, to resist. He felt his body go limp again, and he resigned himself to the burning. 

They rewarmed his feet for what felt like an eternity before feeling fully returned to his toes, like searing fire that throbbed with every erratic beat of his heart. When they’d finished, Vilgrun wrapped each of Gendry’s toes, now puffy with pinkish blisters, in soft, dry linen. Vilgrun used his knife to cut the linen, then tied off the loose ends before wrapping each foot in bandages. Then, he repeated the process with Gendry’s hands. This time Gendry tried not to resist, but Skolr still held him tight. 

By the time they were done, both of Gendry’s hands and feet were wrapped and useless. The candle at the bedside table had burned down to a stub. The water bladders against his body no longer gave him warmth. He could no longer tell a difference between the heat of his own body and Skolr’s. Even his breathing had gotten easier. He coughed less frequently and with less fluid, and inhalation no longer burned in his lungs. 

The worst was over. All he wanted now was to sleep. 

Closing his eyes, Gendry let his head fall back onto Skolr’s shoulder. He felt himself beginning to fade in and out of wakefulness, dimly aware that the Thenns had started speaking to each other again in that strange guttural tongue. He didn’t care anymore what they were saying, but Asvaldur translated anyways. 

“You are right, Vilgrun.” Asvaldur laid a calloused hand on Gendry’s cheek. “He was worth saving, if only for that.” 

Gendry’s eyes fluttered open. He found Asvaldur’s face mere inches from his own. 

As if reading the puzzlement on Gendry’s face, Asvaldur asked, “You know little of our ways, do you? Foolish boy.” 

“I… I don’t understand.” 

“We’ve healed you, which is more than we might do for most southerners. But you do not know why.” 

Gendry shook his head. 

“You made an offer to us, then left before you could, what’s the word, follow through. But now… You’re back, and you’re a warm, living, supple body.” Asvaldur smiled and rested his hand on Gendry’s collarbone. “You should have known not to nod to a Thenn unless you wish to fuck him.” 

Gendry’s heart nearly skipped a beat. He blinked, not sure if he’d heard correctly. Maybe he was still delirious. When he realized that no, he’d heard _exactly_ what he thought he’d heard, he quickly tried to find the words to explain that it’d been a simple misunderstanding. “No, no. That’s not what it means here. I only meant that…” 

“I know what you meant. Respect. I asked a crow what a nod means to you southern lambs. You should have asked what it means to us. Maybe then you would have known what you were offering.” 

“What? But, you helped me. You saved my life.” 

“All the more reason you should give us what you offered.” 

“I can’t…” Gendry’s words seemed to lag behind his thoughts, which now raced with the same fear and desperation he’d felt north of the Wall. “No.” 

Asvaldur said something quick to Skolr in Thennish. Immediately, Gendry found himself being pulled onto his back. The urge to fight flooded him but his body, so sapped and weakened from the cold, refused to obey him. He tried to strike at Skolr with a bandaged hand, but the Thenn easily grabbed his arm and forced his wrist down onto the mattress. 

“No! Davos!” Gendry cried for help, but Asvaldur cut him off by slapping a hand over his mouth. 

“The door is locked,” Asvaldur said, laughing. “He’s not coming to help you.” 

Gendry’s screams were silenced by the strong, oppressive grip. He tried to kick at Vilgrun, but the Thenn easily bested him, grabbing both legs and pinning them to the bed. With his free right hand, Gendry struck out at Asvaldur, hitting him squarely in the chest and sending searing pain up through his tingling forearm. Asvaldur gave a grunting exhale, then coughed. But the Thenn quickly recovered, throwing himself down on Gendry’s free arm. 

A few harsh words in Thennish and suddenly Skolr grabbed Gendry’s right hand and forced his arm up, pinning both wrists in a brutally strong grip above his head. Swiftly, Asvaldur let go of Gendry’s mouth, but Gendry could only catch a short gasp of breath before Skolr’s other hand was clamped over his lips, silencing him once more. 

Gendry thrashed against the unbreakable grip of the two Thenns that held him, but his body was so weak that his limbs began to tremble, energy wasted by the cold and muscles all but useless. Without breath, the pain in his lungs returned in full force, and he sucked air through his nostrils, panicking. He felt his heart beating brutally in his chest, skipping beats, threatening to pound its way out of his ribcage. 

_This cannot be, this cannot be,_ an inner voice cried out in his mind as Asvaldur ripped off the blankets and furs, baring his body in its full nakedness to the cold, dusty air. To no avail, Gendry tried to kick as Vilgrun hoisted up his legs, spreading them apart as Asvaldur climbed between them. Beneath Skolr’s hand, he began to sob dry tears of desperation as he heard Asvaldur unlace his trousers, then pull loose his rigid cock. _Please, by the Light of the Seven, this cannot be…_

Gendry clenched his eyes shut and bucked his hips as he felt the smooth tip of Asvaldur’s cock touch the sensitive skin behind his balls. His trembling worsened, and all his muscles began to feel like they were slowly dissolving in acid. He tried, failing, to pull away. Skolr and Vilgrun held him tight as Asvaldur began to work his way between Gendry’s buttocks, then against the clenched exit of his body. 

“I told you not to fight,” Asvaldur breathed, voice laced with malice. 

Gendry screamed against Skolr’s hand as Asvaldur pressed into him. At first, his body refused to yield, skin catching on skin and pulling until the discomfort turned to pain, then worsening to agony as he felt himself tear open. Gendry felt Asvaldur push into him, spreading him open like a sword into the innards, deeper and deeper, ripping him as it went. His body began to throb so excruciatingly that his muscles failed. For a moment, all he could do was collapse beneath the weight of the other men as the pain engulfed him. With a sharp inhale through his nostrils, Gendry smelled blood and his own filth, and a wave of sickness spread over him, bringing with it a clammy sweat that broke out on every inch of his skin. When Gendry thought he could take no more, he felt Asvaldur hitch himself forward, seating his cock further inside. Again and again, Asvaldur pushed in, seating himself balls-deep before he finally stopped moving. 

“Ohh,” Asvaldur murmured. He lowered himself onto Gendry’s heaving chest and wrapped his arms around Gendry’s frame, pressing their bodies together. Then, Asvaldur began to withdraw, nearly pulling loose before thrusting back in to his full depth. 

Gendry cried out in pain, lungs in agony, heart beating erratically, insides burning, as the Thenn fucked him hard. Each time he tried to break free, his body obeyed him less, until his limbs simply failed to heed him at all. Against his will, his body went limp, and he retreated into his mind, back to running in the snow. There, he almost died. Now he wished he had, before this could have ever happened. He no longer cared if dying beyond the Wall meant becoming a wight, for at least the dead no longer felt the torture they’d endured. But this… 

The sound of Asvaldur’s breathing brought Gendry back to the room in Eastwatch. He opened his eyes and fixed his gaze on the gaunt, scarred face above him. Asvaldur’s eyes were open, watching him, as if consuming him. 

“You are… what’s the word.” 

“Good,” Skolr offered. The lust was heavy in his voice. 

Asvaldur shook his head, panting. 

“Tight.” Skolr then clarified in Thennish. 

“Yes. Tight.” Asvaldur quickened him pace and brought his lips to Gendry’s neck. 

The feel of the Thenn’s tongue and teeth against his skin sent a shudder of revulsion down Gendry’s spine. He closed his eyes again, enduring the rhythmic burning in his guts as Asvaldur suckled his throat and thrust harder, sending jolts of pain through Gendry’s body. _Please,_ he prayed, _Mother, have mercy. Please, let him just finish and be done._

The answer to Gendry’s prayers were, it seemed, an eternity in coming. He felt Asvaldur give a few hard, erratic thrusts before letting out a series of gasps of pleasure, planting his seed in Gendry’s insides. When he was finished, Asvaldur abruptly pulled out, then collapsed for a moment on Gendry’s aching chest. 

Dimly, Gendry felt the Thenn roll off him. Now that it was done, he blinked a few times, feeling the tears stick in his lashes and begin their slow course down his cheeks. He did not bother to wipe them away. As if he could even lift his arms to do so. 

Sensing that Gendry had lost the will to fight, Skolr let go of his mouth and pulled away. Gendry drew in a long, pained breath through his mouth, tasting the smoke of the fireplace and the bitterness of sex on the air. He felt Vilgrun release his legs, and he tried to bring his knees to his chest to stem the throbbing pain deep in his belly, but his limbs would not heed him. He laid there on his back, sweat cooling on his skin, and began to remember what cold felt like. 

He did not fight when Vilgrun took Asvaldur’s place between his legs. He could not fight. All Gendry could do was withdraw into himself as Vilgrun slid into him, eased by the blood of the first round and quicker to finish than the first of the rapers. As Skolr took his turn, Gendry found comfort – or perhaps distraction – in the prayers to the Seven. In his mind, through the pain, he recited the prayers from memory to the Father and Mother and Warrior, the Smith and Maiden and Crone. But when he reached the seventh, the Stranger, he could not remember the few words ever said to the guardian of death. He became fixated on remembering that part of the prayer as the Thenns finished with him, then started again in an order that no longer mattered. Gendry’s ability to remember had faded with the strength of his body, with the will to keep living. As he resigned himself to rape, he resigned himself to knowing that he would never remember the words to the Stranger. So, he made his own. 

_Stranger, who comes for us all._

He exhaled softly as the Thenn finished and, again, another took his place. 

_Stranger. I am ready for you._

Gendry began to feel as though a warm, comforting blackness was closing in around him, enveloping his senses, ending the brutality. The sad reality hit him, then faded into emotionless surrender as he knew with near-certainty that the Thenns would rape him to death. 

When the Stranger came, at least its embrace was warm. As the last vestiges of Gendry’s consciousness began to fall away, he willingly submitted to the painless darkness, leaving the brutality of the world he knew behind.


	3. Chapter 3

Wakefulness came at the sound of a piercing shriek unlike anything Gendry had heard in his life. He startled and shot upright in bed, then caught himself as pain ripped through his body at the sudden movement. He gasped, not sure where he was, or what had happened. He took a moment to catch his breath, then pressed a bandaged hand to where it hurt, deep within his belly. 

As he saw the bandages, his memories of that terrible night returned to him. He shook his head incredulously, trying to piece together exactly what had happened. The proof of his time in the cold was plain to see on his bandaged hands and in the hunger that made itself known in a hollow growl. But the rest, the memories of the dead and of what came after – he could not believe those were anything but a nightmare. His recollection of that time was fuzzy at best, and difficult to focus on. But he remembered pain, then revulsion. He closed his eyes and a few faces came back to him. Some scarred and bald-headed men, others decayed near-beyond recognition as human, one of a woman so red she might have been made of fire. For a moment, he felt them all, their violations of his body, their disregard for any shred of dignity that he had ever carved out for himself in the brutal, unforgiving world of Westeros. 

Gendry swallowed involuntarily and the fragmented memories disappeared. He looked down at himself, trying and failing to remember what had happened. The blankets and furs had fallen away from his naked skin, revealing bruises on his hips and chest. The sight made him nearly retch and he quickly looked away, eyes settling on the sheets. The linens were clean, bearing nothing to suggest a cause for the pain and confusion he felt. There was no proof in the sheets of what his instincts told him had happened. _But then,_ he thought, suspiciously, _perhaps they’d changed the sheets to hide the evidence._ Gendry didn’t want to even entertain that thought. He forced that possibility from his mind, and with a grimace, he swung his feet out over the edge of the bed and onto the floor. 

His feet were still somewhat shaky under him, but his legs held. The residual pain in his middle, though strong, was not so bad as to force him back to bed. He turned his attention away from the gnawing figments of what he hoped was his imagination. 

Distraction came easily with the strange sound he kept hearing from outside the keep. The sound was something between a shriek and a roar, and for a moment, Gendry thought the white walkers had come to Eastwatch. That possibility hit him with a strange sense of numbness, and for a moment, he felt glad for the promise of death. But then, he caught the sounds of men’s voices in the halls beyond his chamber. The men were alert, but not frantic, and no horns had been blown to herald the army of the dead. The sound was something else, but what, he couldn’t tell. 

Driven by curiosity about that sound, or by hunger, or simply by a desire to be out of the room that left him so unsettled, Gendry started the search for his clothes. He found them cleaned and dried and in a neatly folded stack on a chair at the foot of the bed. He used his teeth to unwind the bandages from his hands and carefully pulled on his trousers. Each movement of his legs sent a throbbing sensation up through his groin and into his belly, and he suppressed the unease brought back by the pain. He had to get out of this room. Gingerly, he pulled his boots on and threw on his heavy cloak, then departed that small cell, hoping never to be stuck there again. 

Out in the hallway, a few men of the Night’s Watch hurried by, paying him little heed. Gendry let them pass and went searching for Davos. He found that odd, as he wasn’t usually so drawn to the Onion Knight; Davos was a meddling old man whose head and mouth were filled with platitudes. And yet, despite the strange emptiness Gendry felt, he needed to find the only person in Eastwatch whom he might have called a friend. 

Eastwatch was massive, but largely abandoned, so he stuck to the torchlit hallways to shorten his search. Even so, his going was slow, and every step hurt worse than the last. When coupled with his hunger, the pain made him nauseous, and after twenty minutes, he had to rest and eat to regain his strength. 

He made his way to the central hall, but found it empty. The thin light of midmorning cast itself through the narrow windows, and he knew that breakfast had come and gone. He then started for the kitchens, where he found a stale half loaf of black bread and a cask of ale. He downed the food heartily, nearly choking on the dry bread until washing it down with ale. The drink took the edge off his pain and the bread sated his hunger, and he felt a slight drunkenness overtake the numb discomfort of his thoughts as he finished the meager meal. He then resumed his search for Davos, eventually giving up hopes of finding him in the keep. Cursing silently, he pulled up his hood, not wanting to go the courtyard, back out into the cold. 

Outside, in the miserable snow, wildlings and men of the Night’s Watch attended to their duties, shoring up the defenses and training at the art of war. Gendry scanned for Davos among the others, but stopped when his eyes fell on the back of a pale, bald head. His fragmented memories came rushing back to him and he staggered backwards into the doorway, overwhelmed with dread. He felt his legs give out and he fell against the wall, then slid down, coming to rest on the icy stone. He suddenly found himself back in the tiny room, flat on his back, being held down as the Thenns tore into him. His heart had started pounding as he remembered Asvaldur’s sadistic smile, the feel of his scarred body, the agony he’d inflicted. Gendry squeezed his eyes shut to rid himself of the sight of the Thenn, but his mind kept dragging him back through that horrible experience, as if he were reliving it. 

He barely had the sense to remember where he actually was, or that others had seen him slump to the ground. Through the flood of memories, he heard the chatter of a group of men near him go quiet, then footsteps approaching. Terrified and ashamed, he buried his face in his blistered hands and suppressed a ragged sob. 

He heard someone call his name, then flinched as a pair of hands grasped his shoulders, gripping him tightly. 

“No, please don’t,” he cried, little more than a whimper. 

“Lad, it’s me.” The voice was gentle, belonging to Jorah Mormont. 

Gendry’s eyes snapped open. Jorah was kneeling in front of him. For a moment, Gendry didn’t believe what he was seeing. 

“You…” Gendry gasped, incredulous. “You’re alive.” 

“You’re hurt.” Jorah scanned Gendry’s face, and suddenly Gendry was deeply ashamed, wondering what bruises had been left where people could see them or what troubles Jorah could see in his eyes. 

“I’m fine,” Gendry lied. “It was the cold.” 

Jorah furrowed his brow skeptically. “Davos said you nearly died.” 

_I wish I had,_ Gendry thought, remorsefully. He could no longer hold Jorah’s gaze. “How long have I been asleep?” 

“About a day,” Jorah said. “We returned last night with the Queen.” 

Gendry heard the strange shrieking roar again, then placed the sound. Dragons. 

“So, she’s here. Then, why haven’t we left this place?” Gendry spat the words, not even trying to take the bitterness from his voice. 

“Jon Snow,” came a woman’s voice. 

The Queen of Dragons appeared at Jorah’s side, and he turned, tilting his head to her in deference. She was a small woman, but carried herself with such power and grace that Gendry felt tiny in her presence. He averted his gaze in shame and in habit, having learned at a young age not to look a highborn in the eye. 

“You were the messenger who ran back from the frozen lake,” said Daenerys. Her voice was sad but firm. 

Weakly, Gendry nodded, then stopped when he remembered the meaning of that gesture. A chill coursed down the center of his back. 

“Then you know the hardship of running back to the Wall. Tell me true. Do you think he’s still alive?” 

Gendry exhaled softly, shaking his head. “I don’t know,” he answered honestly. 

“We’ve already waited the night, Your Grace,” Jorah reminded her. 

“And we will wait the day,” the Queen commanded. “I cannot give him up for dead. Not just yet.” 

Jorah did not argue, but Gendry could see that he had already given up hope. As Daenerys, Queen of Dragons, turned to depart for the top of the Wall, Jorah made to follow. Gendry rushed to grab his arm. 

“Where’s Davos?” he asked, wincing against the pain at his sudden movement. 

“Helping to load the ship,” Jorah said. He frowned, then extended a hand to Gendry. 

Gendry took the offered hand and climbed to his feet. 

“Are you all right?” Jorah had lowered his voice. 

“Yes,” Gendry lied. 

Swallowing hard, he let go of Jorah’s arm, then lingered in the doorway to the keep until several minutes had passed. When he finally felt that no one else was watching him, he started for the front gate. He tried not to call attention to himself as he passed through the courtyard, keeping his eyes down and quickening his pace even though it hurt to move so fast. He was nearly out of the gate when he heard footsteps to his left, then saw the gray boots stop in front of him, preventing him from leaving. 

“Going somewhere, lamb?” Asvaldur’s voice sent a shiver down Gendry’s spine. Gendry could hear he was smiling. 

“Let me pass,” Gendry said, trying to keep his voice from quavering. 

“You’ll be staying at Eastwatch when the white-haired dragon bitch leaves, yes?” Asvaldur’s question was more of a threat. 

Gendry glanced up, then to his left and right. Skolr was to his left and Vilgrun, to his right, both slightly behind him. Surrounded, Gendry mustered his courage and raised his eyes to glare at Asvaldur, then tried to push past him. The Thenn stopped him with a forceful palm to the chest. 

“Don’t touch me,” Gendry demanded. 

His fear had curdled into rage that threatened to boil over. Around him, men of the Night’s Watch and wildlings alike had stilled in their tasks, eyes on the confrontation. Gendry no longer cared. If he’d had a weapon, he would have gutted the Thenn right there, knowing full well he’d be hung for murder if his actions didn’t restart the war between freefolk and crows. He glanced down at the knife on Vilgrun’s belt, ready to grab the weapon and plunge the blade into Asvaldur’s pale, scarred throat. 

As Gendry started for the blade, he felt a fist close on his wrist. His arm was wrenched back and he hissed in pain as a tall, impossibly strong man nearly pulled him off his feet. 

“This boy’s not worth it,” growled Sandor Clegane to Asvaldur. “He’s an idiot.” 

Clegane broke Gendry free of the confrontation and started out of the gate, dragging Gendry with him. Over one shoulder, The Hound carried a body in a sack that snarled and writhed angrily as they moved out of the gate. He was strong enough to manage both the wight and Gendry, but once outside, Clegane let Gendry go, giving him a hard push that nearly knocked Gendry from his feet. 

“You – you fucking bastard,” Gendry spat out. 

Clegane guffawed loudly. “Odd choice of insults, coming from you.” 

“He just saved your arse.” Tormund, followed by Beric Dondarrion, caught up with the two of them outside the front gate. “You don’t want to fool with Thenns, boy.” 

“I know who they are,” Gendry said, “and what they can do.” 

“Oh, do you? You know they eat the men they kill?” 

Gendry was appalled, but not surprised. Not after what they had done to him. 

“I think it’s best if you go on ahead,” said Dondarrion to Gendry, narrowing his one good eye. “There’s nothing more for you here at Eastwatch.” 

“I would stay to kill those Thenns,” Gendry spat. 

“There are three of them and one of you,” Tormund warned. “And you’re in no condition to fight. I fuckin’ hate them, too, but believe me. You’re safer off having nothing to do with Thenns.” 

_If only you’d told me as much before we came here,_ Gendry lamented. He bit back a sob of anger and despair, then dropped his hands to his knees, biting his lip against his anger and the pain and his failure to take vengeance. 

“The fates of the Thenns are not yours to decide,” Dondarrion said, “but in the hands of the Lord of Light.” 

“Oh, save your preaching,” Gendry said. 

“Just get to the boat, you little shit,” grumbled Clegane. 

The Hound’s words were always cruel, but now they stung harder than they should have. Gendry shuddered and turned away, at a loss. No response he could find wouldn’t be twisted by Clegane into an insult, taken by Tormund as an invitation for a joke, or turned into a sermon by that damned zealot Dondarrion. He felt sick to his stomach, and alone. 

He turned and left the other men at the gate, not bothering to look back. 

When he reached the shore, he was met by a few of Daenerys’s men and climbed into one of the moored rowboats, facing the sea as they started for the ship. The wind on the waters whipped at his face and set him to shivering. _Gods, I hate the cold,_ he thought. If he never felt cold in his life again, it would be too soon. 

Once onboard, Gendry found a berth deep in the belly of the ship and laid in it, curling his long legs up to fit. There, finally away from prying eyes and caustic words, he buried his face in his hands when the tears finally came. Sobs wracked him hard, and he no longer cared if anyone saw him weeping. He cried until the numbness had returned, soon followed by a sound and dreamless sleep. 

He awoke some unknown time later to the soft, rhythmic creak of the sailing ship. The berthing deck was dimly illuminated by a few oil lamps. In the gloom of the berthing deck, he could not tell if it was day or night, nor how long he had slept, nor if they had yet set sail or were still anchored in the bay. It hardly mattered. Here on the ship, he was safe. 

He lay on his right side in the berth for a while before turning onto his back, but then he remembered what had happened. It wasn’t long before he switched onto his left side, not wanting to lie on his back for long. The pain still inside him throbbed with the motion, but this time he did not try to suppress the memories that came with it. Really, the pain was all he could feel. He wondered if this was normal. 

Unable to bring himself back to sleep, he looked around the berthing deck, counting tassels in bedclothes and hinges on lashed down crates, letting the rhythm of the ship lull him, listening to the occasional cry of the dragons in the sky above. If he focused, he could hear conversations in various other parts of the ship, words muffled by closed doors. Most voices were those of strangers, but some were familiar. One of the voices that stood out was that belonging to Davos. The Onion Knight was onboard somewhere, and Gendry felt a small sense of relief penetrating the cloud of numbness that engulfed him. The relief was swiftly followed by a pang of shame tinged with nausea. He suppressed the feeling, preferring emotionlessness. 

He rose from the berth and meandered through the decks for some time, trying to stimulate himself to feel something, anything, that was not shame or disgust or pain in the pit of his stomach. He kept his eyes down whenever he passed someone, knowing well enough how to avoid being noticed when he didn’t want to be seen. Eventually, he found his way to a privy in the lower decks at the prow of the ship. The faint smell of shit and salt water wafted up through the seat-of-ease, which opened to the outside air a few feet above the ship’s water line. He used the privy, probably longer than he strictly needed. As if he might rid himself of what had been done to him. 

Outside the privy he found a wash bucket and soap and rags near a lidded barrel of wash water tucked away behind a semi-private wooden wall built into the hull. He washed his hands, then washed his face, then washed them both again. Then, ensuring that no one else was around, he opened up the front of his cloak and jacket and lifted up his shirt. In the meager light, he examined the damage. During his few days without food, he’d thinned a little in the middle, and now each muscle was defined beneath his bruised skin. The bruises extended down past his waistline, but he couldn’t bring himself to look beneath his trousers to see where they ended. He closed up his clothing, hiding his body from himself, but then remembered he couldn’t exactly hide his face, especially if the Thenns had left their marks there, too. 

He opened the lid to the wash water barrel and peered down at his reflection. His face was thankfully free of injury and his basic features mostly looked the same, though his beard had grown in a bit after a few days without being cut, and his cheeks were a bit more hollow. But his eyes, those seemed to have aged by years. He could see in his eyes that he’d survived something terrible, but wondered if that was only because he knew what he’d been through. Or was it that people who’d been raped looked different in the eye by nature, and that anyone who cared to look could see the truth? Had Jorah seen it, and if so, had the others – Dondarrion and Clegane, Tormund Giantsbane, even the Queen herself – been able to, as well? Would Davos see it, too? Would Jon Snow? And if the answer was yes, would they keep Gendry in their services? 

No, he thought, sadly. They’d dismiss him like the whore he’d become, leaving him with nothing but a future of endless nights spent getting fucked in a brothel by brutal men like the Thenns, until he was murdered or fucked to death or so used up by drink and rape and resignation that he ended his own pathetic life. Perhaps he should just do it now and save himself the embarrassment. 

With a cry of anger, he shattered his reflection with a fist and forced those thoughts from his mind. He’d never thought about killing himself before. The idea was strange, foreign. But somehow, not unappealing. That scared him more than even the prospect of living with what had happened to him. 

_Perhaps that’s a good thing,_ he thought, _to be afraid of suicide._ Maybe it meant that somewhere, deep down, a part of him remained whole. He shuddered and sank to the floor and cradled his knees to his chest, trying to hold onto that undamaged piece of who he – Gendry, the son of a king – truly was. 

He sniffed back his unfallen tears and raked a trembling hand across his face, then dropped his head back against the wall separating the wash bay from the privy. It was then that he finally laid eyes on Davos. The Onion Knight was leaning against the half-wall built into the hull, and his brow was furrowed. He’d been there for the Gods knew how long before Gendry finally noticed him. 

Gendry let out a bitter half-sob, then turned away. “I didn’t even hear you.” 

“An old smuggler’s trick.” Davos said it without humor. “You’re not yourself.” 

“It’s that obvious, is it?” 

“Are you all right? Or will you be?” 

“You want the truth?” 

Davos nodded, once. 

Gendry laughed bitterly at the gesture. “Don’t nod like that.” 

Davos frowned, but then said, “All right.” 

“I’m unwell, Davos. And I don’t know if I’ll be well again. Not ever. I’ve… The things that…” Gendry tried to explain what had happened without actually saying the words, but his speech came out in a stammer. Eventually, he gave up, then sighed in resignation before saying all that he could. “I’m not all right.” 

If Davos was disappointed or thought less of Gendry, he did not show it. Instead, he came and sat with Gendry on the floor of the wash bay. He inhaled deeply through his nostrils. “Ah, the smell of shit at sea.” A faint glimmer of humor had returned to his voice. “I hope you’ve found a better place to sleep than the privy.” 

Gendry smiled, weakly. Davos laid a friendly hand on his shoulder, but pulled it away when Gendry flinched. 

“You endured a great deal north of the Wall. You have to give yourself time to heal. I understand that. But right now, I need your help.” 

“Oh, Davos…” Gendry held out his wounded hands, turning them over, showing the blisters on every finger, the rawness beneath the ones that had popped. “What use could I possibly be to you like this?” 

“Jon Snow has the cold sickness.” 

“So, they found him.” 

Davos was quiet for a moment. “I thought you’d be glad.” 

“Oh. Sorry.” 

“He hasn’t woken since we’ve brought him onboard. And I figured that, well, as you had the same sickness, you know how to help save him.” 

“You want me to do to Jon what the Thenns did to me?” Gendry asked, slowly. 

“They healed you.” 

“No, they _hurt_ me.” As soon as Gendry had said it, he regretted it. He hadn’t meant to snap at Davos, or sound so callous about Jon Snow. At the look in Davos’s eyes, Gendry turned away, unable to hold his gaze any longer. 

“Whatever they’ve done,” Davos said, “you’re still alive. I don’t want to ask what they did in case you’ve no wish to tell me. But I need to know how to save the King in the North.” 

“Are we still moored at Eastwatch?” 

“Aye.” 

“Then, ask the Maester.” 

“Harmune is a drunk,” Davos grumbled. “I fear for the men of the Watch under his care. And the Thenns, well. They saved your life, but if what you say is true, then I won’t trust them with the king.” 

_But you trusted them with me,_ Gendry thought. He buried his face in his wounded hands, trying not to resent Davos for what had happened that night. 

He didn’t fight the memories as they came back to him again, and he rubbed his blistered hands over his short hair, as if the discomfort might disentangle the healing from the hurt. Biting down hard on his lower lip in concentration, he allowed himself to remember the warm water and the body heat and the soft, dry linen bandages. The pain of being penetrated and of his hands and feet burning. Sniffing sharply, Gendry did his best to keep his memories distinct, then gave a cursory explanation of what they’d done for, not to, his body. 

“You’ll want to warm him,” Gendry said, softly. “A fire and warm water – not too hot, or it’ll burn – for his feet and hands. And if…” He meant to say that if someone warmed him with the heat of their body, he might recover faster, but stopped himself short. Despite trying, Gendry could not separate that thought from what had come so easily after. “If he’s coughing, sit him upright. But… be gentle with him. They were gentle with me. At least, at first. I don’t know why, but I think that helped. And if his fingers blister, don’t break them. Again, I don’t know why. But that’s what they did for me.” 

“Is that all?” 

Gendry shrugged. “All that I can easily tell you. I can better show you.” 

“Come with me, then.” Davos got to his feet, then made his way to leave, stopping just short of the little half wall between the wash bay and the foredeck. He waited for Gendry to join him. Then the two of them were off, making their way toward the back of the ship. 

Jon Snow had been laid in a bed in a stately chamber, far finer than the berthing deck where Gendry had chosen his bed. There, Davos hurriedly set to work stripping Jon of his still-frozen clothing. Jon Snow was unconscious and pliable in Davos’s hands, and for a moment Gendry saw himself in his king, remembering how helpless he’d been when in the grip of the cold sickness. He hurried to Jon’s bedside, ignoring his own pain, and set to work helping Davos rewarm him. He barely noticed as Queen Daenerys appeared in the doorway behind him, watching them work. Her worry was palpable, and Gendry felt a pang of jealousy towards Jon Snow. But he did not let that stop him from doing everything he could to save Jon’s life. 

“Gently,” Gendry reminded as Davos let Jon fall back against the pillows. 

“Right,” Davos muttered. 

“Warm water,” Gendry said as he pulled the furs up over Jon’s chilly, scarred chest. He then started a fire in the hearth of the stately quarters as Davos ran to fetch a bucket. When Davos returned, Gendry warmed the water in a cauldron over the fire, then transferred it to the bucket and immersed Jon’s ice-cold feet. He then did the same with his hands. Jon’s fingers and toes hadn’t gone hard like Gendry’s, nor did they blister upon rewarming, so there seemed little need to do more than dry them and tuck them under the furs and blankets. And though unconscious, Jon seem to breathe easier that Gendry had, lacking that horrible wet cough that Gendry had felt he would drown in. 

_Even in cold sickness,_ Gendry thought, _Jon Snow still has it better._

When they had all they could for the King in the North save crawl into the bed with him, Davos and Gendry fell away as Daenerys came into the room. Even now, her presence made Gendry feel insignificant. 

“Will he live?” she asked, directing the question to Davos, who then shrugged and deferred to Gendry. 

“I… I think so,” Gendry stuttered, staring at the floor. “He’s better off than I was.” 

“Thank you.” Daenerys’s voice was gentle. “You may leave us.” 

Davos cleared his throat, then started for the door, meeting Gendry’s eyes on his way out. Gladly, Gendry followed him, and the door swung shut behind them. Once they were alone outside Jon’s quarters, Gendry made to return to the berthing deck, but stopped when Davos placed himself between him and the exit. 

“What happened, Gendry? I’ve never seen you like this.” 

“I… I don’t know if I can tell you.” 

“You said they hurt you after I trusted them to care for you. I can’t help but feel responsible for that.” 

Gendry bit down on his lower lip and felt his brow knit together until his head hurt. He wanted to tell Davos everything and to lay the blame at his feet, but simultaneously felt that for failing to fight them off, he’d gotten what he deserved and that no one was at fault but himself. This, he did not say to Davos. The guilt was too large a burden to lay on his friend’s shoulders. 

“I’m tired,” he said, finally. 

Davos sighed, but said nothing further. He stepped aside to let Gendry pass. 

As Gendry started for the berthing deck, he could feel Davos watching him, worried, wondering if Davos saw the truth. Gendry could feel it in his bones and insides, in the way he walked, in the tightness of grief that gripped his heart, so strongly he wondered if it was possible for anyone not to see it. _Then why had Davos bothered to ask,_ he wondered. Perhaps for confirmation of his suspicions. Again, Gendry had the horrible thought of what might become his fate if Davos and the others found out the truth about that night. _Not like it matters much,_ he thought. The White Walkers were coming for all of them, and there would be no refuge. For the first time, Gendry almost hoped that the world of men would collapse beneath the snows of winter. At least then, as a mindless member of the army of the dead, he would free from shame.


End file.
